


The Unpaved Road Made for Kings

by pandarave12



Series: Fishing for Sharks Verse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Autism Spectrum, Brotherly Love, Dysfunctional Family, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, Teenlock, and some Mycroft and John bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 22:09:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1404280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandarave12/pseuds/pandarave12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is what he doesn’t tell people. He doesn’t tell people that when Sherlock was born, Mycroft Holmes did the only logical thing a seven-year-old with slightly insane parents could do: he tried to kill him.</p><p>It didn’t work out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Unpaved Road Made for Kings

**Author's Note:**

> Or how Mycroft deals with keeping his autistic father in check while raising his little brother and keeping suitors like one John Watson from said little brother. 
> 
> Missilemuse wanted to hear about Mycroft's side of the story so here it is. Thanks so much for the idea!

 

His brother was born in a weather that befits his personality: dark and stormy and absolutely overly dramatic. This is how Mycroft remembers it. He remembers sitting in front of the window, watching the rain slide down the glass while his mother screamed in pain in a room he wasn’t allowed to enter. He remembers his father looking miserable, like he would be happier elsewhere, preferably a place that was quiet and did not smell like antiseptic. He remembers the blood underneath his father’s fingernails and the wound he’d managed to make in the inside of his wrist, horrid enough that Mycroft decided to climb off the bench, tug on a passing doctor’s lab coat, and say ‘mister, my father isn’t feeling well because my mother isn’t’ so that he was left all alone in the waiting room with nothing but the rain to occupy his mind.

 

This is how he tells it to people who ask. He tells them that he loved his baby brother as soon as he set eyes on him, when they handed him all red and wrinkled and crying like he would never stop. It’s easy enough to believe because everyone with functional eyes can see that he does love Sherlock, although he expresses it in ways that most people find intimidating.

 

This is what he doesn’t tell people. He doesn’t tell people that when Sherlock was born, Mycroft Holmes did the only logical thing a seven-year-old with slightly insane parents could do: he tried to kill him.

 

It didn’t work out.

 

The plan was simple enough. His father wasn’t looking, his mother was tired, and he was seven and adults often assumed he was clumsy because he was too young. Dropping his baby brother on the floor to spare him from their parents would have been easy. Only Sherlock stopped crying, perhaps sensing that Mycroft was more than ready to send him to the grave, and gave him a look that was so trusting that Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to do it.

 

It wasn’t his expression exactly. It was his eyes. They were the universal blue of all babies before pigmentation sets in, but somehow they were already intensely focused. It was a look that would discomfit every person outside the Holmes’ family in the first week of Sherlock’s life.

 

It was a look Mycroft knew well. He couldn’t deny not knowing it.

 

Mirrors don’t lie.

 

* * *

 

 

His name was stolen, as was Sherlock’s. Mycroft was named after a paleontology major his father met and briefly befriended while in uni as a Violin major. Sherlock was named after a fresh-grad journalist who followed them around during Siger’s second world tour. The journalist’s parents had an affinity for naming their children with unusual names (Sherlock, Rembrandt, and oddly, Iceland). Siger liked the sound of the names so much that he stored them in his mind, unaware that he would later find a use for them.

 

His parents met in the Barbican Centre when Siger was just starting. Violet was the daughter of one of the senior oboists. She found Siger’s eccentricities more endearing than off-putting and Siger was more than a little fascinated by her genuine interest in his fixations. They married in June, a year after their meeting. They had Mycroft a year after that. It would have been perfect, really. But they married too young and whatever wrongness Violet found in Siger that she assumed would be cured as soon as she married him, turned out to be a permanent fixture in their lives. Violet only stayed because of him, and probably, she would have left sooner had Sherlock not been born. Mycroft already knew that she would leave so it didn’t really surprise him when he came home one day to find his little brother in the kitchen, bawling his eyes out because he was hungry. Mycroft’s just grateful she left after Sherlock was potty-trained because neither he nor Siger have ever mastered changing Sherlock.

 

He’s only nine-years-old, but he’s been taking care of his father since he was old enough to think for himself. Taking care of one more person doesn’t seem like much. Besides, he has his grandmother to help him with his father, which leaves Sherlock to his care.

 

Everyday Mycroft gets up before his father’s alarm rings, heads straight to the kitchen, and puts three scoops of ground coffee in the coffee maker. The toast comes next and this one’s more difficult since it should be left long enough until the edges are slightly burned—but _only_ the edges—so Siger will eat it. Cordelia likes herbal tea which she makes herself anyway so all Mycroft really has to do is put the kettle on. As for Sherlock, he’s a picky eater, but he’ll eat whatever Mycroft hands him when he’s hungry enough. He’ll follow Mycroft around, babbling endlessly until Mycroft leaves for school. That’s when Cordelia grabs Sherlock and tells him ‘stay put, boy, and stop taking off your pants, it’s undignified’ as if a two-year-old, no matter how smart he may be, can already know the difference between right or wrong.

 

School’s not something that’s very important to Mycroft but he’s a Holmes; he can’t afford to be seen as someone of lesser intellect. Still, he deliberately makes mistakes on tests and deliberately forgets answers when he’s called. It makes him only the second or sometimes third smartest person in class in terms of academics. But that’s alright because being first means too many parent-teacher meetings, too many interviews from teachers about his home life, too much time spent in school, and Mycroft can’t afford that because his father and his brother need him elsewhere.

 

He doesn’t have friends because he seldom talks, and because he seldom talks, he gets picked on a lot. They don’t do much. They just like to trip him when he’s walking or stuff frogs in his backpack. Stupid stuff, _kid_ stuff. He doesn’t fight back because he’ll attract attention and he knows just how much Siger hates going to an unfamiliar place. As for the frogs, well, he takes a few of them home and releases them in the backyard so Sherlock can chase them. It’s a win-win situation, sometimes.

 

Dinner is easier because all they have to do is to call the selected restaurants who are familiar with Siger’s odd eating habit. The food comes packed differently when it’s for his father, ingredients separated according to colour, the vegetables evenly diced. Siger’s insistence on keeping his food arranged like that is beyond Mycroft but as long as it gets him to eat, then it’s fine.

 

It’s easy. As long as there aren’t any distractions, they get by.

 

* * *

 

 

When Mycroft turned five, he was asked to choose among the instruments in the library. His first choice was a viola, a larger version of his father’s instrument. But the strings cut through his fingers, and Mycroft immediately asked to be taught the piano instead because he can never let his hands be rendered useless, even for just a minute. He found the piano more soothing anyway and as his mother knew how to play it, there was no need for a tutor. Later, after Sherlock, it becomes useful in helping him go back to sleep.

 

He doesn’t have the passion for music, although he does appreciate it. He only plays it because it amuses Siger and it’s the one activity his grandmother brags about to her friends, because even though he feels neutral towards it, he’s still a good pianist. Sherlock likes to curl under the grand piano when he’s playing, arms wrapped around Mycroft’s right leg and occasionally reaching up to tug at his wrists, as if to remind Mycroft of his presence.

 

When Sherlock turns three, he immediately latches on to a violin, in spite of Mycroft and Cordelia’s protests the he’s too young and too small for it. In the end, it’s Siger who has one customized to fit Sherlock, an expensive violin that Mycroft initially thought would go to waste as soon as Sherlock handled it.

 

But Sherlock loves music and what started out as a croaking mess turned into simple pieces in less than a month, elaborate symphonies in two years. It’s a good choice for Sherlock because it helps Siger notice him better. Sometimes he’s disapproving when Sherlock does it wrong (and of course he’ll get a piece wrong, he’s only three for godssake, he still wets his bed every other night). Other times, he’s deeply fascinated, as if Sherlock’s more this little maestro than his youngest child. Mycroft finds them together like this sometimes when he returns from school: Siger curled up in the arm chair with Sherlock on his lap, the Stradivarius balanced between them while Siger tries to explain things to Sherlock in the simplest way possible.

 

Years later, Mycroft will wonder why Sherlock even doubts his father’s affections. Because as strange Siger is, and as odd his requests and habits may be, what he feels toward them is love, although expressed in ways difficult to understand. If you ask (and Mycroft did this once), Siger Holmes’ answer to the three things he loves most in his life are his ex-wife, his sons, and his music. Always, always in that order.

 

* * *

 

 

Kids usually start earning money by mowing the lawn or selling newspapers, or if they don’t want to make the effort, steal from other kids. It becomes a thing when Mycroft turns twelve, like every kid should have a small business.

 

They’re rich, it’s obvious at first glance. Siger isn’t a full-time member of the orchestra for nothing. Both he and Sherlock have trust funds, which will fall into Mycroft’s hands the moment he turns sixteen. Sometimes Mycroft has money (and lots of it) when he asks Siger for his allowance and he hands enough to help him survive on his own for a week. Sometimes he doesn’t because Siger forgets and Mycroft is never, ever going to ask money from his grandmother. It’s an unspoken rule at home.

 

“I want one,” Sherlock says. He’s staring at an older girl’s ice cream cone, his words softened by his missing front tooth. He’s five and old enough to be aware of their father’s condition and the rules that come with being born into their family, but still young enough to see no sense in them.

 

Mycroft stuffs his hands in the pockets of his trousers even though he already knows that there’s nothing in them because Siger forgot again. They’ll have dinner because the restaurants already know that it happens sometimes, and when SIger does forget, he pays them twice the amount which suits them just fine. Mycroft takes one look at the crushed look of disappointment in his little brother’s face and decides there and then that he’s never going to go anywhere without money in his hands.

 

He becomes a ghost writer of uni students’ thesis papers through the internet a month later. Not one of those students suspect that the person writing their papers can’t even drink yet, let alone drive, so they send him large amounts of money that he keeps stashed underneath his mattress. It isn’t an easy job and what Mycroft doesn’t already know, he has to learn, balancing the workload with his school work in the early hours of the morning, with Sherlock curled up at the foot of his bed. It’s an unethical job but Mycroft thinks he’s making people happy anyway, and that those uni students can have more time to themselves before they graduate and get picked up by dreary companies. Besides, most jobs are unethical.

 

He’s going to need the money anyway, to help raise Sherlock, and it’s not like he’s going to stay here forever. He’s only Siger’s caretaker until Sherlock’s old enough to go about without a guardian. Mycroft isn’t too worried about what will happen when he leaves and when Cordelia dies. He long suspected Siger won’t make it to fifty if both of them are gone. It’s either he’ll kill himself during one of his moods or starve himself to death when he’s gone in his own head, so Mycroft makes conversation with his father’s co-workers, dropping hints about how Siger can’t be trusted to live on his own. Most of them like him, and most of them have been looking out for his father even before Mycroft was in the picture, so he has no problems with Siger’s well-being in the future.

 

His brother, however, is a different story.

 

* * *

 

 

It never occurs to Mycroft that he spoils Sherlock rotten most of the time. It never even occurs to him that he has a choice to _not_ love his little brother. He took one look at Sherlock in the hospital and decided that he would love him with all his heart, because no one ever will.

 

Because people always leave.

 

Mycroft suspects that some people are just born that way. It’s either they’re needy or they want to be needed. He’s young; the law says that Sherlock isn’t even his responsibility. But when Sherlock cries when he scrapes his knee or asks him childish questions about the sky or chases after their father only to meet a closed door, Mycroft thinks _how can you_ not _stay?_

* * *

 

 

He gets hold of his trust fund at sixteen. It’s not enough to make him a millionaire but the number is close enough. Or in Mycroft’s opinion, not enough, so he invests his money in a social networking site that’s just starting. Sherlock tells him it’s stupid, that he’s taking a risk and that he’ll lose half his money in the process.

 

Mycroft doesn’t take risks and Sherlock knows this, so when the website becomes popular in less than a year and Mycroft has more money than he knows what to do with, Sherlock’s expression sours and he starts calling Mycroft a ‘pompous, fat git’.

 

* * *

 

 

When he turns seventeen, he gets seated next to Belle Whitman in his History class. Her perfume smells of blueberries and when she smiles, Mycroft finds himself smiling back. What he feels towards her is never love but she becomes his first girlfriend just to see what having a relationship is like. Although when Sherlock meets her, he mutters under his breath, “She’s not your girlfriend, she’s your sex toy.” He becomes increasingly rude at ten, the death of their grandmother leaving him shaken inside, like a fallen mirror that only cracked and refused to break. He found her in the living room, lounging in the couch as if in sleep, and when Mycroft came home she was there with Sherlock sitting on the floor at her head, knees drawn to his chest and eyes glued to a book he never read.

 

But to be fair, what Sherlock says isn’t far from the truth.

 

He loses his virginity in her bedroom, shortly after returning from their third date and finding the house empty but for the two of them. He doesn’t get addicted to sex, nor does he crave it, but it does help him relax, and as crass as the act may be, it’s the best he can do for her. He can never give her his heart so he gives her his body and his mouth and his hands, hoping that sex might equate to love in her world.

 

Eventually, they break up because Belle complained about a lot of things. She complained about his insistence on paying the bill every time they went out, she complained about how she never got to meet his father, she complained that he wasn’t there for her birthday when Sherlock got in trouble for fighting again. Mycroft was only being a gentleman and a good brother. But people don’t understand so he stops dating after Belle, thinking that it wasn’t much of a loss anyway. Besides, she’s too high-maintenance and she’s not exactly the kind of girl Mycroft is willing to drop everything in his hands just for her.

 

He starts again a few months later when he meets Reyna Darwin. He meets her while accompanying Sherlock to his dental appointment, when the girl across them put looked up her magazine and shot a wry grin at the two brothers having another dispute. She’s three years older and works two jobs so their schedules fit just fine, because every time she’s working it’s either Mycroft is in school or investing his money or with his family, discussing Sherlock’s problems in school or dealing with Siger’s strops. Half the time, Mycroft even forgets that they’re dating and so does she. Neither of them are surprised when they start sleeping with other people because it isn’t much like an official relationship anyway. Still, Mycroft calls her his girlfriend, up until her co-worker in her second job finally asks her out. He isn’t bothered by it. You don’t stick around a relationship if it isn’t going anywhere.

 

He remembers her, though, not because it’s a gentlemanly move to remember the people you’ve slept with, but because of what Reyna said about Sherlock. “He’s gay, isn’t he?” she asks when he sees her again. Sherlock’s far enough not to hear it, and distracted enough to ignore them. Mycroft watches when his brother looks away from a woman wearing a purple hat (serial adulterer, tights creased, eyes darting from side to side, untanned band of white skin where a ring should sit) to look at an older boy passing by. Mycroft raises his eyebrow disbelievingly but Reyna gives him a tight-lipped smile. “I’d know. I have two brothers and both of them are.”

 

Mycroft pays closer attention to his brother after that and he sees that Reyna is right. Maybe not gay, exactly, but it’s true that Sherlock’s more attracted to the same sex than the opposite. Sherlock isn’t aware of it yet because he’s only ten and liking someone is more of a disease than an opportunity when you’re that age. But it’s a fact and facts are unavoidable. Sherlock’s eyes linger too long on boys and boys older and when little Molly Hooper tries to kiss his brother’s cheek, Sherlock’s reaction more or less confirms it. It doesn’t really bother Mycroft and if Siger does find out, he won’t even care since sexuality isn’t much of an issue with them.

 

Sherlock meets Victor Trevor and Mycroft worries for a moment. But what they have isn’t friendship anyway and when Siger chases Trevor out the door, Mycroft’s relief is palpable. “Stop being so smug,” Sherlock gripes. He’s kneeling on the floor, the broken remains of the vase Siger threw cradled in his hands. Later, Mycroft will feel guilty for it, but now all he feels is relief because Victor Trevor is one less person to come close enough to Sherlock and hurt him.

 

* * *

 

 

His current girlfriend Tanya has a sister in Sherlock’s new school. She’s small and timid as a mouse (the sister, not his girlfriend) so when she sidles up to Mycroft and tugs on his elbow, he’s startled, more so when she tells him, “There’s someone who _really_ likes your brother.”

 

His name is John, she tells him, and he sits next to her in their math class. “It’s funny,” she says. “He talks about him a lot to his friends. I thought you should know.” She smiles at Mycroft like Mycroft should find it funny so Mycroft smiles back and tells her he’ll talk to Sherlock about it.

 

“I don’t want to talk to you about it.”

 

It isn’t easy to glare at him when he’s sprawled upside down on the couch, feet propped against the wall and head hanging over the edge. Siger’s seated next to him, perched by his hip, a strangely-designed Rubik’s cube in his hand. Sherlock must have stolen it and given it to him in order to have more time with his experiments in the basement. The Rubik’s cube was solved hours ago but Siger keeps rearranging it and starting over again.

 

Give the man a puzzle and he’ll create more puzzles to avoid the solution.

 

“I said nothing,” Mycroft answers but Sherlock just snorts which sends him into a coughing fit because it really isn’t something you ought to do when you’re hanging upside down. He curls up on the couch, hand over his mouth to stop the coughs. Mycroft notices his body tense when Siger takes one hand off the toy to pat his back absent-mindedly.

 

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Sherlock grumbles once he’s recovered, pushing Siger’s hand out of the way so that it returns to the cube. Mycroft rolls his eyes when Sherlock storms out of the room. Childish still, he thinks. His eyes land on Siger and the Rubik’s cube in his hands, solved once more. Sighing, Mycroft gently pries it out of his fingers, then asks him what he’d like for dinner.

 

* * *

 

 

People like Sherlock for his oddly-coloured eyes and the high cheekbones underneath his skin which will likely sharpen with age. They like him for his curly hair and his pale skin and his curiously-shaped mouth, and when he smiles, Mycroft has to admit that his brother has a face that can move from serpentine to angelic in the space of a second.

 

People are doomed the moment they look at Sherlock Holmes.

 

Physically, Sherlock’s more their mother’s child than Siger’s. He remembers his mother when they were younger, how men would stop what they were doing just to look at her or, if they were brave enough, have the courage to slide in front of her and find an excuse to make conversation. He remembers their faces falling at the sight of the ring on her finger (which now hangs around Siger’s neck) and he wonders how those men would have reacted upon finding out she’d chosen an autistic man to birth her children.

 

In the divide between people who need and people who need to be needed, his mother fits under the latter category. Or at least, used to.

 

People become infatuated with Sherlock. Kids his age, kids older, people much older and who make Mycroft walk closer beside his brother. They become attracted to him like moths to a light, and then they get burned when Sherlock opens his mouth and drives them away because he hates them, hates them with a passion that Mycroft knows all too well, because why does the world have to be so slow, why can’t these people even _try_ to understand?

 

He isn’t really bothered by John, because in every school Sherlock’s been to, there’s always someone who thinks he’s just misunderstood by society and not really a spoiled brat (because if you take away the situation with their parents, Mycroft is fairly sure Sherlock will still be Sherlock). It becomes a bit of a joke, up until he sees Sherlock glued to his phone in the early hours of the morning. The phone isn’t a hand-me-down; Siger bought it for him in case Sherlock gets into trouble again and needs to be picked up from wherever it is he manages to land himself. Mycroft knows it’s John.

 

Who else would Sherlock even text?

 

He brings it up again and again and again and watches how Sherlock turns less spiteful with every question, watches until his answers fade into a resigned silence.

 

* * *

 

 

The first time he sees John Watson, Mycroft’s mind deletes him moments after the encounter. To be fair, they _were_ quite busy with Siger’s latest hunger-turned-hospital-stay and John was the last thing on his mind when he saw his brother tremble with fury at the sight of their father.

 

The second time he sees John Watson, he’s standing outside the school with Tanya, his attention wavering from the conversation when he spots John walk up to Sherlock. The second time he sees John Watson, he’s blatantly flirting with his brother, his face soft with adoration, and Mycroft doesn’t know who he ought to protect.

 

He sees John many times, but he only truly sticks to Mycroft’s mind when Mycroft sees him walking to school and more or less tells him to get in the passenger’s seat. It is early morning and John Watson has just kissed his brother some time yesterday. Mycroft knew it the moment he asked Sherlock about John, when Sherlock’s silence turned into a ‘piss off, Mycroft’, his face flushed and his eyes defiant and in spite of himself, Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to not laugh.

 

“Yes, I’m dating your brother,” John tells him in a tone that’s between ‘and so what are you going to do about it?’ to one that’s almost respectful. Mycroft narrows his eyes at him but John only stares back, his face getting that stubborn look universal to teenagers everywhere.

 

There isn’t anything remarkable about John’s appearance. He’s not ugly, nor is he handsome. There’s just nothing striking about his features (with the exception of his ears which stick out and are noticeably a bit too large for his head) which is why Mycroft keeps forgetting his face. He has yet to know why Sherlock likes him as Sherlock has yet to tell. Besides that, he never even thought about his brother liking someone in that way.

 

“I like him,” John admits in a low voice, eyes focusing on anywhere but at Mycroft. “He’s brilliant and funny and well, why _shouldn’t_ I?”

 

Mycroft sneaks another glance at him when the light turns red. John’s hair is uncombed, his uniform slightly wrinkled but tucked as neatly as possible in his black trousers. His eyes are bright and alert from too much sleep. He looks so young and innocent that Mycroft almost winces at his words. “You’re aware that my brother isn’t like others?” he asks. “You’re not going to have an easy time with him.”

 

It’s meant to be a deterrent but instead of frowning, John’s face lights up. “Yes,” John says and he sounds so sure of himself that Mycroft can’t bring himself to push him away. Mycroft stays silent for the rest of the drive while John hums to a pop song on the radio. Later, he thinks, when Sherlock knocks on his window the moment he parks, demanding he let John out.

 

“I should go,” John says. His attention’s already moved away from Mycroft, has already turned to Sherlock. Mycroft ignores his brother’s curses and lets the door open and John step out, Sherlock immediately turning silent as soon as they see each other.

 

* * *

 

 

“Sherlock’s making friends in his school.”

 

Siger sets his pen down and gives him an uncomprehending stare. Mycroft sneaks a glance at the messy page of his journal but meets nothing but gibberish to him. It must be Polish or Russian, one of the few languages Siger studied when he was younger because he had nothing better to do outside of violin-playing. It’s one of the things about Siger that the two of them should never forget: that as odd as he is, they did get their genius from him.

 

“They are good? His friends? That Trevor boy, I didn’t like him.”

 

Mycroft thinks about it. John Watson _is_ good if you’re going to base goodness on his treatment of other people. It isn’t just Sherlock he treats like he’s the most precious thing in the world (may or may not be an understatement to how John feels about his brother). He doesn’t exactly love everyone, but he can easily empathize with others. It’s just in his face. You look at him and you get a feeling that he understands what you’re feeling. And, well, misery does love company.

 

“Yes.”

 

Siger doesn’t mention it to Sherlock when he gets home. Mycroft almost thinks that he’s forgotten. It’s only when he catches Siger watching Sherlock carefully that Mycroft doubts it.

 

* * *

 

 

“I’m getting used to this.”

 

John shoots him a cocky grin then thanks him in a sincere tone when Mycroft hands him his drink. Just as odd as Sherlock, only in a different, more subtle way. He puts his nose near the little opening on the lid of his hot chocolate then gives a satisfied hum before thanking Mycroft again. “I have to admit getting kidnapped by you has its rewards.”

 

“It’s not a kidnapping, John, don’t be so melodramatic.”

 

“Nah, that’s Sherlock’s job.”

 

It isn’t a kidnapping and there’s really no reason that Mycroft’s here with John beyond the fact that he spotted a rain-soaked John walking home with a broken umbrella in his hand. Sherlock doesn’t know, or at least, he doesn’t know yet because John doesn’t have his phone with him (only coins outlined in his pocket and what might be a key to the house). And Mycroft might be cold and uncaring to other people and their needs but John is Sherlock’s and Mycroft isn’t exactly heartless.

 

“Where were you before you found me?” John asks. He’s still more than a little soaked, trailing rain water as he approaches the magazine stands. One of the cashiers behind the convenient store tries to level him with a dirty look but John ignores it.

 

“I was with my girlfriend.”

 

“Oh. Huh, Sherlock never mentioned that.”

 

Mycroft gives him a careless shrug in response. He doesn’t really like Tanya; he’s only dating her because it’s convenient to have a relationship in uni. It makes you less intimidating, makes people talk to you more and spill their secrets. Most of them are useless but some of them might come in handy one day so Mycroft stores them in his mind, carefully sealed so that they never show when he smiles at his peers and tells them to have a good day.

 

Besides, Tanya thinks Sherlock is ‘freaky’. If she ever meets Siger, her world will probably collapse in on itself.

 

John picks up a magazine, frowns, then grins when he spots another behind an outdated copy of Times. It’s even older and a little worse for wear but John’s already handing Mycroft his drink and digging in his pockets for his money. Mycroft looks at the cover. It features a chalk outline of a body and the words ‘Top Ten Unsolved Crimes of the Century’ in thin white letters.

 

Mycroft is certain that John isn’t going to read that.

 

* * *

 

 

Sebastian Wilkes hurts his brother. Mycroft gets the call while Tanya is making him lunch, naked but for Mycroft’s shirt, and it almost feels domestic and normal in the way most people define normal, up until Sherlock sends him a text that he’s in trouble again.

 

Naturally, Mycroft leaves.

 

Sherlock doesn’t cry because they just _don’t_. Crying is a sign of weakness; it’s giving in. Still, he’s visibly shaken, even when Siger has finally calmed enough. His hands are clumsy and after the fifth time he drops his cutlery, Sherlock gets up and mutters his excuses. They don’t see him at dinner the next day either.

 

“Sherlock isn’t happy.”

 

Mycroft’s fingers still on the piano when Siger sits on the bench, close enough that Mycroft can smell his aftershave. He had a show last night, his hair still artfully swept back by the gel they used on him. An outsider won’t even think there’s something different with him.

 

“He was never unhappy when we moved him to other schools,” Siger says. There’s a lost look in his eyes and when he turns to Mycroft once more, he can practically see ‘why’ written all over his father’s body.

 

His father can’t read emotions well. It’s not like how he and Sherlock deal with other people’s emotions. They can choose to ignore it if it’s hazardous to their well-being (and emotions almost always are). Siger’s ignorance isn’t curable. You glare at him and he’ll think everything’s fine between the two of you. You smile at him and he’ll think it’s a threat.

 

People like him, they don’t always understand.

 

It doesn’t mean that they don’t want to try.

 

“Sherlock has a boyfriend,” Mycroft drops. It isn’t his to tell but Sherlock will never admit it out loud to their father. Siger seems unperturbed by the word ‘boyfriend’ as Mycroft predicted, so he goes on until Siger’s attention wavers and finally drops away from the conversation.

 

* * *

 

 

He has to drive through the intersection near the Watsons’ house to get to school. It’s why kidnapping John is so easy. It’s also how he nearly manages to run him to the ground.

 

“I do have the money to pay for your hospital fees but even I can’t get away for killing you,” Mycroft grumbles. Still, he unlocks the door and allows John to slide in the passenger’s seat. He’s dressed in his school uniform but one glance at him confirms that John is going to be absent today. There’s a box of biscuits in his hands, the kind that Sherlock brought home once and ate by himself (Mycroft saw the box in the bin the following morning).

 

John doesn’t stall. He gets to the point, his glare at Mycroft nearly comical if it wasn’t so serious. “He hasn’t answered any of my texts,” he says. “What’s going on?”

 

“Maybe he got bored.”

 

“Maybe you’re just not telling me.

 

Mycroft shrugs. It’s the wrong move because John slams his fist on the door in defiance, only grimacing a little when he does it. His knuckles are bruised, the skin on the left split. His mind goes to Wilkes and wonders how many bones those two broke between them. “I don’t want to play games,” John says harshly. “I have to talk to Sherlock. He always texts back. _Always_.”

 

Mycroft does the only thing he can do when there’s an angry thirteen-year-old in his car. He turns left and parks it.

 

“My brother’s never let anyone come close to him until you,” Mycroft starts. John falls silent but Mycroft can see him warring with himself. “What makes you so special, John? And don’t tell me that it’s because you love him. It’s easy enough to say.”

 

John glares at him. And before Mycroft can stop him, he’s opening the door and stepping out. In the rear view mirror, Mycroft sees him walking towards the direction from where Mycroft came.

 

His house or theirs?

 

He texts Siger just in case. He doesn’t text Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

 

“I answered it right, didn’t I?”

 

It’s nearly seven o’clock but John is still here, dressed in his uniform. Siger has pulled Sherlock aside and, for once, the two of them are having a decent conversation. Considering that the topic is about noxious chemicals and its effects on the human body, it isn’t surprising why Sherlock’s being civil.

 

“Yes.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock turns fourteen a few months after John does and no one bats an eye saves for John, who arrives in their house with a small cake balanced on the handlebars of his bike. Sherlock starts saying something about the stupidity of celebrating birthdays but John cuts him off with an ‘idiot, I can’t believe you even though I’d forget’. Mycroft can tell that he’s pleased, and more than a little flustered when the two of them return from the backyard. The front of Sherlock’s shirt is twisted and John’s shirt is untucked, and Siger sighs and rolls his eyes, then promptly kicks John out in spite of Sherlock’s whining.

 

“We didn’t—” Sherlock starts but Siger shuts him up with a look. Their father has moved from ignoring John to acknowledging him as someone important in Sherlock’s life (but still not really liking him). There are rules though, and Siger won’t ignore them, not even for Sherlock’s birthday.

 

Mycroft catches his brother trying to sneak out half an hour later, when Siger has gone back to the music library to finish a composition. Sherlock turns to face him, his very posture insolent. Behind him, Mycroft catches a glimpse of John, his head and shoulders the only thing visible within the frame of Sherlock’s bedroom window.

 

“You’re not going to stop me,” Sherlock says, no, _tells_ him. John offers a sympathetic shrug that’s slightly ruined by the discomfort on his face (standing on one of the branches of one of the yews that dot their lawn, the branch probably a bit too low for him).

 

Mycroft looks at his brother, registers how he’s grown an inch taller again and how he looks less thin, looks less like someone whose bones you can snap in your hands.

 

“You know the rules,” he says. “Be back before midnight.”

 

He laughs at the gobsmacked expression on Sherlock’s face, one that he quickly replaces with a stoic look. It’s the closest to a ‘thank you’ he’ll ever get.

 

He doesn’t mind one bit.

 

That’s just the way they are.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So that leaves John's story which is set two years later, making them fifteen, and er, remember that whole no-sleeping-with-sherlock-until-he's-sixteen rule? Yeah, fuck that, John's "Three Continents Watson", let's go break that stupid rule.


End file.
